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::INSIGHT::

What we see, we have already "read" as our visual cortex filters our perceptions down through the doors of our experiences. What we read is immediately transposed perceptually to some kind of image that is compatible with our imagination. Here you will find much to read, and lots to see.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

For William Stafford

For William Stafford

Someone we love, old friend,has telephoned to let me knowyou're gone--and so you are.I touch the steady books,my mind casts back then forth,and says, as you said once,so long--I look toward seeing you everywhere.

Henry Taylor 1993

For William Stafford

A gentle, quiet-spoken man.As a teacherhe seemed to wholly possessthe quality of attention.It wasn't so muchhe didn't talkbut even his talkingseemed to listen.At 19, I had plenty to say--I'd just learned to speakand wasn't ready yetfor hearing.But somehow deep in the earI heardand planted, long dormantthe seeds of resolveto someday enterthat quiet spacewhere the ear speaksand the tongue listens.

Kimberly King

A Telephone Line Grows Cold

In Memory of William Stafford

1.Second month after your death,from dog-days to frost-on-the -ground alreadyI arrived in my rental car unannouncedon your sidling street above Lake Oswego.Home and home, Bill, we kept in touchover the years, "interacting"the best we could, but nowall the news I brought seemed cold.and of all the question I never asked you,only the silliest remained;"When you write before dawn enrolledon that famous sofahow can your ballpoint pen function properlywriting uphill like that?"Once, friend, I really wanted to know.

2.Both cars gone, yours and Dorothy's,a week's newspapers piled behindthe screen-door--why had I come here?What would I say, or ask?Your kindly house, once full of booksand flowers, humped on its lawnimpenetrable as stone.And yet, as I turned to go,in some dark interior, a phone began to ring,and rang, and rang,emptying room after room with itsignorant summons, from someone who did not know you'd gone;and in the silence after the ringing,inside that house grown vastas the Great Plains, I swearI heard your calm voice answering us all;"All writing is uphill, friend,and the words must percolate up."

Jarold Ramsey

on POETRY NORTHWEST 1996

Appetite

for William Stafford

Pale gold and crumbling with crust,mottled dark, almost bronze,pieces of honeycomb lie on a plate.Flecked with the pale paperof hive, their hexagonal cellsleak into the deepening poolof amber. On our lips,against palate, tooth and tongue,the vicious sugar squeezesfrom its chambers, sears sweetnessinto your throat until you chewpulp and wax from the blue cityof bees. Between your teethis the blown flower and the flower'sseed. Passport pages stampedand turning. Death's officious hum,both the candle and its antherof flame. Your own yellow hunger.Never say you can't takethis world into your mouth.

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